The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,73

so vivid, so substantial Alba could reach out and touch it. The memory of layers and layers of broken glass rises up and, all at once, she sees her father raw, broken, flawed. Alba feels a surge of panic flood over her and suddenly it’s all too much too soon.

Albert reaches a chubby hand out toward her. “Alba.”

His words are royal blue and dark red: sorrow mixed with obsession.

Alba stares at her father, and he stares back at her. Then she turns and runs.

Chapter Eighteen

Greer lies naked across her bed, face up, spread out like a starfish, wondering what to wear. Usually this is the most delightful moment of her day, but today she’s just too tired to care. Acting onstage is one thing, it’s hard enough—but acting every day of your life is bloody exhausting. Greer spends so much time lying lately—to Blake, to herself, to her mother—that she’s losing track even more than usual of who she actually is and how she really feels.

With a sigh she gazes up at the ceiling to see a crystal chandelier she’s never noticed before. It’s large with heavy, glittering droplets of glass hanging in tiers around six lightbulbs. Sunlight bounces off the crystal, scattering rainbows across the room. Balanced between two lights is a piece of paper folded in half. Greer stands and reaches up for it, then flops back onto the bed again.

At first, turning the paper to examine the diagrams from different angles, she can’t make any sense of it. And then, suddenly, it’s clear. The page has been torn from a dress pattern, showing the cut of fabric, the lines to stitch and sew. She can’t tell what it would make, but the design is old-fashioned and the paper worn, as if ripped out of a 1950s copy of Good Housekeeping.

Greer glances at the wardrobe, the inkling of an idea simmering in the back of her mind, and feels suddenly hopeful.

—

For once Alba’s not in the mood to see Stella. She doesn’t even want to fall asleep and see her mother. Tonight she just wants a break from everything: her father, the love song, her family, the question of what she’s going to do with her life. Tonight she just wants to lose herself in a book and forget. Alba sits in the living room, propped up on sofa cushions reading On the Road. The photographs try to engage her in conversation, but she studiously ignores them. So Vivien Leigh and Vanessa Bell resort to holding an open conversation about her.

“She’ll never be a great writer,” Vivien declares, “or a great woman, if she keeps running from life like that. No guts, no glory.”

“Cliché,” Alba mutters to herself.

“And all the truer for it,” Vivien retorts. “Why did you run from him, what were you so scared of? I can’t quite understand it.”

“Well, what do you know?” Alba hides behind the book.

“Watch your mouth, missy,” Vanessa says. “We certainly know a lot more about the ins and outs of life than you do.”

“I remember being young and naïve,” Vivien says. “It had its perks, but there is nothing quite like experience, trust me. Of course, for that you have to throw yourself into the fray.”

“Indeed you must.” Vanessa nods. “You cannot find peace by avoiding life, only by diving in and finding you can swim. Peace comes from conquering your fears, not running from them.”

“Please,” Alba snaps, “just leave me alone, okay?” She returns to her book, trying to focus on the story, but no matter how hard she tries to block them out, Vanessa’s final words linger in front of her eyes, the floating letters a bright, shining green.

—

To avoid more preaching from the photographs, Alba escapes to spend the rest of the afternoon with her book on a park bench. She’s had enough of the house for now, or rather, all the know-it-alls who inhabit it. She appreciates getting advice when she actually asks for it. But when she’s purposely trying to avoid something, she wishes everyone would just leave her alone.

It’s a new phenomenon for Alba, having so many people who care enough to constantly offer their opinions about her life. Having grown up among entirely uninterested (or clinically depressed) family members, Alba can’t quite get used to it. Her own mother never gave advice, and now she has a hundred replacement mothers wanting to do nothing but dispense their own particular brand of wisdom. As the sun sets Alba thinks of Elizabeth, her rare moments